Effulgent
by BeneficialAddiction
Summary: After losing his troubled fiancée to suicide, Will Pratt aka Spike creates a comprehensive live-in treatment facility for severely battered women called Effulgent – where they believe every woman is. Spike however, is holding on to a lot of guilt and anger from his past, until a new case, that of one Buffy Summers, forces him to do the one thing he never thought he could – forgive.
1. Chapter 1

Holy God was it a bad morning for a hangover.

A shrieking alarm clock awakened Will 'Spike' Pratt at six am, setting off a killer headache that would follow him for the rest of the day. Lurching across the hallway into his closet-sized bathroom, he quickly flipped up the lid of the toilet and spent the next fifteen minutes hugging the cool porcelain, retching up the small amount of alcohol still left in his stomach. Climbing shakily to his feet, he rinsed the sour taste from his mouth and dragged the back of a shaky hand across it, staring at his image in the mirror over the sink.

He looked like hell.

His hair was only half gelled, spiked and messy on one side, the other side pressed flat against his head by his pillow. Black eyeliner was smudged in heavy rings around his eyes, contrasting darkly with pale, clammy skin. His stomach was still rolling ominously, and chills were rolling down his spine. He wanted nothing more than to close the curtains tight over the window and crawl back into his bed for the rest of the day, but calling in sick wasn't an option this morning, so instead he peeled out of last night's sweat-and-vodka stained jeans and climbed into the shower.

Cranking the water as hot as it would go, he stood under the spray and scrubbed until his skin was red and raw. Running his hands over his face, he let out a shaky breath and climbed out. He knew that while the shower could wash away the dirt and grime of his latest bender, it couldn't wash away the guilt or the shame, or the memory of the nightmare's that always followed. Drying his bleached hair roughly, he parted it neatly on the side, slicking it back in a way that reminded him of old fashioned church-going. Wrapping the damp towel around his waist, he headed back to his room in search of clothes.

Even in his condition, the state of his closet never failed to amuse him. The rest of his apartment was everything that anyone would expect of a young, single man's living quarters; slightly under furnished and fairly messy, magazines scattered across the coffee table, dirty socks on the floor, pizza crusts in a box on the counter, but his closet was another story. Impeccably organized, and neatly bisected down the middle, it was a better reflection of who he was than the face in the mirror had been; one side Will, one side Spike.

'_Tara would have a field day in here_,' he thought, sliding open the right-hand door.

Precisely why he had never invited the girl into his bedroom. Not that she would have accepted the invitation if he'd offered; she had been batting for the other team since he'd met her at university. Sliding hangers along the bar, he selected a soft, long sleeved cotton shirt in a muted shade of olive green to wear with his jeans and his boots. He also pulled out a short, seldom-used flak jacket, his 'Will' jacket. Spike's long leather duster would be staying where he'd left it the night before, tossed sloppily over the back of the couch.

Closing the closet door, he collected his keys and his wallet from the top of his bureau and headed for the front door. He debated stopping off in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, but he was already running late and he doubted that the bitter liquid would help to settle his stomach. Locking his apartment door behind him, Spike snagged the paper off the doormat and dropped easily down the two flights of stairs to the car park beneath the building.

The drive to Effulgent was quick; it had to be since he was always on call, but it was still a trial for his old Desoto. He had neglected the car over the course of the summer, letting it while away the months under a cover while he tooled around happily on his Kawasaki Ninja. Maneuvering the motorcycle would have been more a hassle than a pleasure this morning, but he probably would've taken the car regardless. If he was going to be Will today, he was going to do it right. Cough and wheeze in protest though the old car did, it got him to his destination safely, and he gave the dashboard an affectionate pat before climbing out.

Fighting the childish urge to kick the sign denoting the parking spot as belonging to William Pratt, he breathed in a deep lungful of cool, foggy, morning air and wished desperately for a cigarette. Unfortunately, those were a Spike thing, and Will shouldn't smell like nicotine on intake day. Tara's little green VW Bug was parked in its own space nearby, the condensation on the windshield a good indication that she'd been there for a while. He had been hoping that she wouldn't be in the office when he arrived, but he wasn't surprised that she was, and supposed that he could fake it well enough to get past her without much fuss. Unlocking the glass doors, he stepped into the lobby of the treatment facility and aimed for his office.

He made it.

Shutting the door quietly behind him, he sighed in relief. Leaving the lights off, he skirted his room and instead cracked the blinds over the window, slipping into his leather office chair where a small amount of sunlight trickled in at his back. Dropping his forehead to the desktop with a clunk, he groaned softly under his breath. It was going to be a long day. Luckily for him, there was a bottle of Extra-Strength Excedrin in his desk drawer for just such occasions. Before he could reach for it, a gentle knock sounded at the door.

"C'mon in luv," he called, sitting up and straightening the sides of his jacket.

"Morning," Tara smiled softly, slipping into the office on a breath of jasmine scented air. In her hands she held a steaming mug. "Tea," she said, taking a seat on the other side of the desk and pushing it across to him.

Spike eyed her speculatively, wondering how he'd been found out. He thought he hid a hangover better. But she misinterpreted the look, and in doing so, reassured him that she was unaware of his condition. For now.

"Made the proper way, I promise." She held up a palm as if taking and oath.

Taking a long swallow of the strong, hot beverage, he smiled in appreciation. "Finally learned how to make a proper cuppa. Ta, pet."

"Well I had to," Tara said with a stern look. "_Someone_ threw away all the instant."

"Cheap American…."

"Yeah, yeah I've heard it all before," she laughed lightly. Watching silently for a moment while he sipped at his tea, she aimed a frown in his direction. "Did you eat this morning Spike?"

"It's Will today luv," he replies, smoothly avoiding the question. "You know that."

"I'm worried about you," she countered softly. "_You _know _that_. Separating yourself like this isn't healthy…"

" 'S not Wednesday luv," Spike said firmly, pushing his mug to the corner of his desk. "And I don't have time to fit in a session right now."

Tara's face fell, making him feel like a real git. Reaching out to cover one of her hands with his own, he gave it an apologetic squeeze. "I'll eat a big lunch yeah?" he said, trying to catch her gaze. "Actually, why don't you join me? I'll take you out to Clem's."

"I can't," she replied sadly. "I have a consultation with Jenny at one."

"Then we'll order in," Spike said, standing to pull a folder from the filing cabinets along the wall. "We'll go up to the loft in the gym, like we used to."

"I'd like that."

Spike smiled at her, glad that he'd managed to salvage the conversation while still steering the topic away from himself.

"So," he said, dropping back down into his chair and spreading the file out before him. "Intake day."

Tara nodded. "Intake day," she agreed.

"You read the file?" he asked.

"Yep. Female, twenty two, being checked in by her mother," Tara ticked off on her fingers. "Blonde and hazel, five foot four, one hundred and ten pounds, name…"

"Buffy Summers."


	2. Chapter 2

"She's been in a single parent home since she was fifteen," Spike said, flicking through the folder on his desk. "Behavioral problems started soon after. Typical teenage stuff; rebellion, underage drinking, minor petty theft… then she burned down her high school gym."

Tara frowned, settling back in her chair as Spike ran a quick refresher on the case they were about to take.

"They moved to Sunnydale soon after," he continued. "She seemed to straighten out from there. Got her act together, graduated with decent grades."

His face darkened. This is where things got bad.

"Senior year, she met Angel O'Connor. Long-time boyfriend, they've been together for the last five years. Moved in together after high school. Her mother thinks the abuse started in that first year. Physical, mental, and emotional, most likely sexual as well, though it hasn't been confirmed. She's coming in with a broken arm and a concussion, as well as deep tissue bruising. Physician's report says that she was in a coma for three days. Boyfriend's been missing ever since."

"She's pressing charges?" Tara asked.

"The mother wants to. So does Wesley, and the cops of course. But they haven't gotten her to admit that he was the one who did it… even though it's pretty obvious."

"I'll make sure to keep that in mind in our sessions," Tara said to herself, tapping her fingers on her chin. "Anything else?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Nothing for now. She'll be checking in with Wes and her mom at nine."

"You're doing the intake?"

"Yeah. I'll have Jenny look her over, then get her settled into her room. That way I can show the mother around a bit, introduce her to some of the staff. You know it's always harder when they're not court-ordered here."

Tara nodded. "But it's good that she has family. It makes a difference, having someone close that you can count on."

She wasn't just talking about Miss Summers, but he chose to ignore the opening. "Good for her, usually harder for us. Concerned family members don't usually like leaving their loved ones in the looney." He could say that with confidence, having more experience on the subject than he cared to.

"I suppose we'll find out," Tara sighed. "I have a few things do this morning, but if you need me, you know where to find me."

"I'm hoping to get in a nice discussion with Wes and the mother before they go. I'd like you to sit in if you can."

"Of course." Rising from her chair, she turned to leave his office. "Don't forget lunch!" she called over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't dream of it luv!" he called back.

Shuffling his papers around, he grabbed his half empty tea cup and took a swig. It had gone cold, but it was still good, and it had a settling effect on his stomach. Finishing it off, he tucked the folder under his arm and locked up, heading out of the administration building and across the lawn towards the dorms.

The sun had fully risen and was glinting off the grass, heavy dew dampening the sides of his boots. When he had first started Effulgent, he and Tara had been working out of a single building that was used to conduct all of their business, but the success of the program had quickly gained attention. The facility was now federally funded, and had grown to include multiple structures and a diverse staff, capable of treating as many as two dozen women at a time. They were referred the most serious cases from throughout California; some through the courts and others by word of mouth, but it wasn't important how they got there. In the end they were all coming from the same place, and they weren't turned out until they were ready to go.

Spike believed that _that _was what made Effulgent different. Other facilities might hold as many as a hundred patients at a time, and the turnover rate was terrifying. The first thing he had noticed about places that professed to do rehab was that the doors never seemed to stop swinging. They pushed people out as soon as they appeared even remotely better than they came in, and it helped few. By taking on fewer clients, they were able to give more attention to each one, and to make sure that they were truly ready to move on before they were discharged.

The dorms were housed in a long two-story building that had been divided into fifteen rooms, nine doubles and six singles. There were community bathrooms and a kitchenette on each floor, as well as two large common areas and the front lobby, in which Spike now found himself. A pretty brunette girl sat behind the wide desk to his left, scribbling into a notebook while she sipped on a cup of coffee.

"Morning Fred," Spike smiled, walking over to the desk and leaning his elbows on the high wall that fronted the reception area.

"Good morning Spike!" the girl chirped back.

Winifred Burkle was a cheery slip of a thing, moved up to California from the south for university. She was rather brilliant in the field of science and research, but in the middle of her sophomore year, she'd been kidnapped and held hostage for several months. While she had somehow remained positive and upbeat after her terrible ordeal, she had never returned to her previous career path. Instead, she had found Spike and his team and quickly become a part of Effulgent's close-knit family. Unlike many super-science-types, she had an incredible intuition for people, and was now perfectly happy as the overseer of the entire housing unit. A caring and sympathetic personality, she was the perfect den-mother to a house full of wounded souls.

"Will today luv," Spike chided. "Bringing you a new one this morning, remember?"

"I remember," she smiled. "But I like Spike better. Will's boring."

Spike didn't respond. He didn't know how. He hadn't recreated himself in an effort to be cooler, or to have more fun. He had boxed up parts of his personality out of necessity, as a way of controlling the memories, dealing with the hurt of his past. He _wasn't_ Will Pratt anymore; when he had assumed the mantle that was his 80's punk persona, he had done it whole heartedly. 'Spike' was who he really was now, but unfortunately, much of the world wasn't as accepting of his new look and attitude as he and his friends were. So he held on to 'Will,' locked him away in attic of his brain and only let him out when it was absolutely unavoidable. Like today. His new client's mother would expect something from the director and co-founder of the nationally renowned 'Effulgent,' and regardless of how Tara felt about Spike's 'division of personalities,' Spike would deliver.

"Ready for today pet?" he asked Fred, shoving off the counter.

"Yep. Room eleven's all set for move-in. You said she was good for a single right?"

"That should be fine." Spike paged through Buffy Summers' folder for a minute while Fred waited patiently. "There's no mention of any addictions or disorders, so she won't need constant monitoring. Let's keep it low-key for a while, let her settle herself in."

"Of course," Fred replied. "I'm planning the group welcome-dinner for this Friday, is that too soon?"

"No, I think it will be good for her. Show her that she can make some friends while she's here. Her abuser isolated her from most of her friends at home."

"Poor thing," Fred murmured.

Spike offered her a sad smile. Fred was hit hard by each and every case that came in; it was part of what made her good at what she did. "I need to schedule a meeting to get a comprehensive update on her status; I know you get weekends off, but you can make it in for a few hours on Friday, yeah?"

"That shouldn't be a problem," Fred replied, setting aside a sheaf of papers and coming around the desk to join him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she gave it a squeeze. "Don't worry," she said softly. "I'll keep an eye on her for you. I'm thinking of pairing her with Faith, I have a feeling they'll get along."

"You know best pet. She should be here around nine with Wes and her mom." Spike smirked to himself at the way her face brightened when he mentioned the PI's name. "We're going to stop off and visit Jenny and then I'll bring her by about nine thirty. Good for you?"

"Perfect!" she said happily, clapping her hands together. "Is it terrible that I'm excited?"

"Nah pet. We're doing good work. They may not wind up here under the best of circumstances, but there's no shame in being happy to give 'em a chance."

Shooting a glance at the clock behind Fred's desk, he gave her a friendly chuck on the chin and left, headed back to his office for one more go-over of the case file in his hand before he headed out to meet the much-anticipated Buffy Summers.


	3. Chapter 3

"Blondie Bear? That PI guy is on line two."

Spike sighed wearily. No matter how many times he threatened to fire his secretary, he could not impress upon her the importance of keeping her mouth closed. Of course, that would have made it hard for her to do her job effectively but…Other than that, and her horrible habit of relentlessly hitting on him, she really was a good secretary, and her ability to wheedle a reluctant donor over the phone had been invaluable in Effulgent's early days. The most Spike hoped for now was that the nicknames wouldn't get any worse than 'Blondie Bear.'

"_Thank_ you Harmony," he growled reluctantly, tapping at his phone to switch lines. " 'Lo!"

"Will? Wesley here. Bad time?"

"Hey Wes," Spike sighed into the receiver, avoiding his question with one of his own. "You guys here already?"

"At the gates."

"I'll go get the red carpet."

Wesley chuckled softly. "Meet you out front in three?"

"I'll be there."

Hanging up, Spike made sure that his keys and his cell phone were in his pocket and headed for the visitors' parking lot, pausing for a moment before the lobby mirrors. The man that stared back wasn't him, though they looked enough alike. The soft, muted green of his shirt, the careful, neat part in his hair, the way he held himself; it all screamed Will, and in Spike's mind, screamed weakness. Will might be widely known and respected for his work with battered women, might have his own life and his own world that was perfectly put together, but Will was also wounded… damaged. Spike wasn't.

Shaking off the shadows that clung to his shoulders, he headed outside towards the parking lot, watching the drive while he waited near the front doors with his arms crossed snugly over his chest. A moment later Wesley's car appeared, a Crown Vic of all things, and almost as old as Spike's Desoto. The sight of the stereotypical cop's car brought the ghost of smile to his lips. Pulling into a slot in front of the building, the PI killed the engine and stepped out.

"Will," he smiled, striding over to Spike's side and sticking out a hand for him to shake. "It's good to see you."

Spike grasped his hand and pulled him into a tight hug; a man-hug, one-armed with fists clasped between their chests, but a sincere and heartfelt hug all the same.

"It's good to see you too Wes," Spike replied.

A million things passed between the two men in that moment, each remembering all the things that had brought them together. Spike had met Private Detective Wesley Wyndham-Price eleven years before under the worst of circumstances, circumstances which had only gotten even more horrible from there. Highly connected with the LA Police Department, Wesley had managed to help him through the worst days of his life, nights when he collapsed into haunted sleep not sure if he ever wanted to wake up. Wesley had cared when he didn't have to, and had helped to pull Spike out of his nightmare and back into a relatively normal life. In many ways he could be credited with the creation of Effulgent, encouraging Spike to take the pain and the terrible knowledge he had suffered and turn it into something useful. He had an immense amount of respect for his fellow Brit, and was more grateful to him than words could ever express. He only hoped that Wes knew just how much.

A gentle throat clearing broke the short reminiscence, both men taking awkward steps back, embarrassed to be caught gazing into each other's eyes as it were. Giving Spike's upper arm a hearty clap, Wes turned and gestured his two passengers forward, giving him his first glimpse of his new clients. The first to step forward was clearly the mother, an older woman, pretty despite the concern that darkened her voice. She offered him a small smile, reaching out a tentative hand that nonetheless shook his firmly. Spike was fairly decent at reading people by now, and he could sense a core of strength in this woman that would serve her well in the months to come.

"Hello Mr. Pratt, my name is Joyce Summers," she said softly.

It was obvious that she wished to say more, but would keep her own council for the moment, something that Spike appreciated. Too often there were accusations, demands, and tears where family was concerned; things that all had to be dealt with eventually, but the first meeting was never the best time. This mother seemed to sense that.

"Hello Ms. Summers," Spike replied, shying from the phrase 'pleasure to meet you.' It was rarely well received in this place. "Please, call me Will. I hope your trip wasn't too tedious."

"Not at all. Wesley was kind enough to drive us, and to tell us a bit about you on the way."

"All good things I hope," Spike smiled gently, glancing over at Wes who nodded. "Wesley and I have known each other for a while; I'm sure he could bend your ear for quite a few hours on the topic."

"He tells me that you've managed to help over seventy-five percent of your clients." The hope that shone through her eyes was almost blinding, and was painful for Spike to witness.

"We do have a higher success rate than many other facilities," he confirmed slowly. This was part of that conversation that was better held later. "My staff and I are dedicated to this program, and do everything we can to help the women who come to us. But they have to want the help we offer."

Joyce nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. Turning away from him, she beckoned to her daughter who had been waiting quietly near the car, the one that everyone had been preparing to welcome for almost a week now. She stepped forward hesitantly, one arm clutching a stuffed pink pig, the other in a thick cast of the same color resting in a sling around her neck. Spike's heart broke at the sight. Shining blonde hair was pulled forward around her face, but beneath it he could see the yellowing bruise over one eye, the finger shaped marks on her neck that still beat a purple tattoo against her golden skin. He knew she was twenty two, but standing in front of him hugging her stuffed animal she looked all of a confused and frightened child.

"Hello Buffy," he said softly, not making any moves towards the slight young woman. "My name's Will."

Painstakingly, she brought glittering hazel eyes up to his, forcing herself to meet his gaze, and when she finally did, he was stunned. He recognized the things he saw there, the shadows that swam behind the tears, knew them intimately, and his throat grew thick with unsaid commiserations. Something about her struck him fast and hard, something in the way she held herself that made him remember. Like her mother, he could sense strength in her; buried deep and for now unacknowledged, but it was there, and it gave Spike hope. Something about her reassured him. She would survive this. This one would make it.


	4. Chapter 4

He could feel her sizing him up. He didn't blame her. A healthy distrust for men was certainly warranted, but he _was_ surprised. Many of the women who came through Effulgent's doors didn't believe in their own worth, thought that men were superior, and took whatever they dished out believing that it was what they deserved. Buffy Summers held herself back. She watched him with suspicious eyes, and Spike was glad that he had refrained from offering her his hand. There was obviously some sense of self-preservation at work within her, even if it walked hand in hand with paranoia _and_ delusions. Never let it be said that these were simple problems.

Taking a step back, he smiled gently at the girl. "Who's your friend pet?" he asked, testing her reaction, wondering if she would bother to answer the innocuous question or not, whether she would balk at the nickname he used on most everyone at some point.

"Mr. Gordo," she responded after a moment, the smallest hint of an edge behind her quiet words, daring him to poke fun at the stuffed swine.

Spike's smile widened. She was defensive, but at least she could speak for herself. Could speak to a man. He'd seen many who wouldn't, or couldn't. Her voice was rough and throaty, no doubt a consequence of her near strangulation, and he would make a point to mention it to Jenny later on.

"Good name for a pig," he responded. She rewarded him with the smallest suggestion of a smile, one corner of her lips just barely tipping upward, and it sent a bolt of warmth through his chest. "Well," he said, rubbing his palms together and looking back to Joyce, "On with the tour yeah? I've cleared my schedule this morning to show you around a bit; Wesley, would you mind taking Buffy's things over to the dorms? Fred will be quite happy to show you where they belong."

The PI colored a bit as he nodded, a smile threatening to break. "Yes, quite," he replied. "I'm sure I'd be quite happy to lend a hand. Ladies," he said, turning to the Summers women, "I leave you in the most capable of hands."

With a small wave, he climbed back into his car and trundled off across the complex. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Buffy sidle closer to her mother, unsettled by Wes's departure. Apparently she had come to place some amount of trust in him, enough that his absence made her anxiety levels rise.

"Once we've seen a bit of the grounds we can head over and meet up with him," Spike said idly, though his intention was to reassure the girl. "Then we can get Buffy settled into her new room. How does that sound pet?" he asked.

The girl didn't respond, though he didn't expect her too, only watched him carefully with guarded eyes. Her mother made a move to chastise her for lack of manners, but Spike breezed onward before she could.

"So this building behind us," he began in a voice that was louder and firmer than it had yet been, gesturing widely with one arm, "Is the administration building. It houses most of our staff offices, and is also the 'golden gate' as it were. Anyone entering the complex must be cleared through the front, as you and Wesley were when you arrived, and all visitors must check in here before moving into the facility."

As he spoke, Spike continuously watched Buffy through his peripheral vision, noting the way she responded to the change in his tone and the way he moved his body around her. While she shied at first, she seemed to quickly acclimate to the stronger presence he began to project, merely moving slightly away when he swung an arm wide to encompass the whole of Effulgent's properties.

"We take security seriously here," he continued, knowing that this was of particular concern to both Joyce and Wesley, with Buffy's attacker being currently MIA. "No one accesses the grounds without being cleared by our staff first. Charles Gunn is our head of security; he was the fellow down at the gates that cleared Wes through earlier. He takes his job very seriously, and there are several levels of precautions in place should a security breach ever occur."

His words seemed to reassure Joyce, but he noted that Buffy's face had darkened. Something for Tara to later explore. Walking them slowly about the compound, he pointed out the art and music studio, the care center where Jennifer Calendar worked as a physician and physical therapist, and the gym where he could typically be found leading meditation and self-defense classes. While he had hoped that Jenny would have the time to look over Buffy's condition and speak with her mother about her medical history, she was busy with another one of their girls who had had a violent allergic reaction earlier that morning, so they continued on instead to the dormitory.

Spike held the door for the two women, pleased when Buffy ducked under his arm and moved inside, though she pressed herself as far away from his body as she could, glaring at him from the corner of her eye until she was safely by and had placed her mother between them again. Wesley was leaning against the front desk, speaking quietly with Fred, who was blushing and smiling coquettishly. Spike cleared his throat, announcing their presence and causing Wesley to jolt upright, sputtering and fussing in a very British sort of way.

"Will!" he coughed, "Erm, back a bit sooner than I expected. Everything go all right?"

"Just fine Wes," Spike replied with a smile. "Jenny was busy, so we headed over here so Buffy could check out her new room."

On their arrival, Fred had leapt from her seat and skipped around the desk to stand at Spike's side, and was now bouncing on her heels excitedly. Spike chuckled, placing a calming hand on the eager young woman's elbow. "Ladies, this is Winifred Burkle. She coordinates housing here at Effulgent."

"It's so great to finally meet you!" Fred exclaimed softly. Stepping forward, she wrapped Buffy in a light, brief hug, careful of the broken arm slung around her neck. To Spike's surprise, Buffy showed the most forward behavior she had yet that morning, shuffling Mr. Gordo deeper into her elbow and returning the hug as much as she could manage, her fingers patting Fred's back in an awkward, one-armed embrace. "You can call me Fred," the Texan continued. "I love your pig! He's so cute!"

"Thanks," Buffy replied without hesitation. She seemed to be taking to Fred.

"Well, as Will here said, I'm pretty much the boss-mom around here," Fred said with a gentle laugh. "Most of the time you can find me around, and when you can't my number is posted for the girls near the phones."

"You're on call?" Joyce asked, surprised.

"I am," Fred replied with a bright smile. "Most of the staff is. We're dedicated that way." A happy laugh tinkled from the girl like a wind chime, and she touched Spike gently on the shoulder. "Will here is available twenty-four-seven, to anyone who would like to get ahold of him. And of course, our physician Jenny, is always available for emergencies. I take most weekends off, but I live close by, and I spend most of my time here."

Reaching out, she ran her hand down Buffy's arm in a friendly manner, and the girl smiled in response. "I like to play mom," Fred confessed, directing the statement to Joyce, but standing at Buffy's side supportively. "I do as much as I can to make the girls feel at home here and encourage them to confide in me; to see me as a friend." Turning to look at Buffy, her cheerful personality melted for a moment, and the sincerity of her words shone through her clear brown eyes. "If you ever need _anything _Buffy, please, don't hesitate to come to me. Even of you just want to talk, or to just have someone to sit with. You can always come find me."

Buffy's cheeks pinkened, and Spike wondered if she were embarrassed by the care that Fred showed her, a virtual stranger. It made him question what Buffy knew affection to be, what her version of love was. She must have felt his eyes on her, because her hazel gaze suddenly flashed to his, uncertainty a dancing shadow deep inside her. Blinking, Spike hastily looked away. Those were questions for Tara to explore, not him. He was no psychologist. He was better at the physical side of things; teaching the girls how to be stronger and to have trust in themselves, giving them confidence and the tools that would help them to protect themselves.

Once, he had thought of _himself_ as a pillar of strength, someone that a weaker person could count on, lean on when strong shoulders were needed, whether for bearing burdens or for weeping. That part of him had been destroyed with one great, sweeping mistake, when his support had failed to be enough when it mattered most, resulting in terrible personal tragedy. But Spike had learned. It took more. More than one person, more than just the willingness to be there. So he had built himself back up, surrounding himself with professionals who were the best in their field, and finally, _finally_, was able to offer something.


	5. Chapter 5

It took Fred treading down on Spike's toes with her heel to snap him out of his reminiscence. Biting back a yelp, he glared at the offending young woman, to which she responded only with a sly smile. She had obviously noticed his spacing out, his eyes still lingering on the golden sheen of his new client's hair. There was something about this girl that drew him, something dangerous. He had never allowed a case to become truly personal, not in the way that Fred and some of the others did. He had plenty of reasons not to. And now, here stood Buffy Summers, suddenly, somehow, threatening to cut that safety net. Furious with his unprofessional behavior, he hurried to cover his error.

"Ready to see your new room, pet?" he asked, a little too quickly in his embarrassment. "Fred's got it all set up for you."

"I think you'll really like it Buffy," Fred smiled. Shifting Buffy's stuffed animal into her own arm, Fred linked their elbows and began to guide the girl towards the stairs. "I picked out the one on the far end for you. It has a western-facing window; the sunsets here are beautiful. Almost as nice as the ones in Texas!"

"Are you… are you from Texas?"

Her voice was so soft that Spike almost missed the question, but it was good to see her reaching out already. Fred had that effect on people. Nodding to Wesley when he excused himself to make a phone call, Spike gestured Joyce ahead of him and ascended the stairs at her side, watching the two women ahead of them climb the stairs.

"We'll stick around for a few moments," he said softly, directing his words at the woman at his side, who watched her daughter with a mix of concern, fear, and hope. "Make sure she settles in."

Joyce only nodded, her mouth tight. She was frightened, Spike could easily see that. On the one hand, it was a good thing that she had someone who cared about her, who would support her and wanted to see her better. On the flip side, the elder Mrs. Summers could be a problem. Women like Buffy came from dependent, controlling relationships, and exchanging one for another was not a path to healing. Spike himself knew what kinds of damage could come from… _replacements_.

"Here we are!" Fred said happily as they reached the end of the hallway.

The floor was quiet, most of the girls out and about at their different classes, sessions, and appointments, and it gave a bit of occasion to their arrival at the dorm. Opening the door with a flourish, Fred ushered Buffy inside, welcoming Joyce in behind her with a gesture. For his part, Spike waited in the doorway, leaning casually against the jamb. The position did allow him to see if Buffy would react to being closed into a room, but more to the point he didn't think he would've comfortably fit inside with the three girls already occupying the space. The room was small, certainly big enough for one, but still small. He watched quietly as Fred gave her the unnecessary tour, showing her the standard furniture; twin bed, dresser, bedside table, a small writing desk. He thought he might have seen a flicker of light in her eyes when Fred opened up the wide, empty closet at one end of the room, but it was gone so quickly he couldn't be sure.

Quickly enough, that awkward moment of hesitation arrived, that moment when they all knew it was time to go, but didn't know how. Spike rolled smoothly off the door frame, taking a few steps back into the hallway, allowing the women a moment of privacy, while Fred moved to the back wall of the room, busying herself with adjusting the blue-checked curtains over the window. Buffy and her mother moved towards each other, but stopped when they were an arms-length apart, the uncomfortable half-dance he had seen a dozen times. Joyce was the one to close that gap, abruptly stepping forward and folding her daughter into a tight embrace.

"I love you sweetie," she said firmly. Gripping her shoulders, she spent a moment studying her face, looking her in the eye. "I love you," she repeated. "And you know I'll always be here for you. So if you need anything, _anything_… just call me all right?"

Buffy nodded, hanging her head. Shame? It was fleeting, much like all the things he'd seen from her so far. When she tipped her face up to her mother's again, he saw a girl like any other girl, but there was strength there, a core of steel shining through like the beam of a lighthouse. It burned right through the center of him, giving him a violent hope that there was something in there, something he could work with. And it was an astonishing thing, a beautiful thing, that someone who had been so maltreated, so badly abused, could still look at the world with that kind of light in her eyes.

"I'm gonna be ok mom," she said. Her voice was soft, but it held conviction. "I… I know I need to change something. And I think I can do that here. But I'm gonna be ok. So don't worry all right? Please?"

Joyce shook her head in silence, her mouth tight as she struggled not to cry. Spike shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He hated tears. Lots of reasons why, but he really, _really_ hated tears. Leaning in, Joyce pressed a kiss to her daughter's forehead before stepping out into the hallway to join him. Fred slipped up next to Buffy as though she had never left her side, cheerfully offering to help her unpack, an offer which was calmly accepted. Joyce had begun to walk away down the hall, one hand over her mouth and shoulders stiff, and Spike moved to follow, but unlike her, he looked back. Buffy was watching pensively through the doorway, meeting his eyes for just a second before she turned away, disappearing back into the room. Spike blinked, then moved to catch up with Joyce.

* * *

"Joyce, I'd like you to meet Tara McClay," Spike said, placing a hand lightly on the psychologist's shoulder.

Together with Wesley, they had left the housing block and returned to administration, meeting Tara in one of the small offices near the back of the building reserved for consultations. It was cozily furnished, a loveseat and two wing-backed chairs grouped around a small coffee table, a pot of the dark stuff percolating away in the corner and filling the room with a pleasant smell. Choosing one end of the small couch for himself, Spike shucked his jacket and draped it over the arm before taking his seat.

"It's good to meet you, Mrs. Summers," Tara smiled, reaching out and shaking her hand lightly. "It's always nice to meet supportive family."

Joyce smiled back politely but sat down stiffly in the chair left unoccupied by Wesley, angling her body towards him, the one she was clearly most comfortable with. Tara wasn't surprised. Her profession often threw people off; they worried that she would analyze anything they might say or do. She shared a soft smile with Spike, who was once the gravest of offenders, so much so that he had stalwartly avoided her for an entire week after getting a tattoo that she had yet to see or hear fully explained. Handing him her coffee mug, which he accepted without thought or question, she sat down at his side and smoothed her skirt, opening her file over her knee before taking the cup back.

"Will, would you like to start?" she asked him softly, just loud enough that Wesley and Joyce could both hear.

He nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "We know a lot of the background on this of course," he began, "But I _would_ like to start at the beginning, run through the whole thing again…"

"Why?" Joyce questioned abruptly, her voice demanding. Her eyes were red from the effort of holding back the tears that had threatened when she'd said goodbye to her daughter, her knuckles white as she clutched at her upper arms. "You've heard all this, why do we have to…"

Spike looked to Tara, silently asking her if she was going to recover the conversation from the emotionally fragile woman, but she was too busy watching her reactions herself to take the reins he held out.

"Mrs. Summers, I understand that this is difficult for you," he said, his voice firm to keep it from cracking. He hated going here, hated bringing up his past, hated having to relate to this pain because it always brought up questions he didn't want to answer, but he pushed forward. "Believe me," he continued. "I know how hard it is. But going over it again will allow me, and more importantly Tara, to ask questions, to pinpoint things that might help us in developing a treatment plan for Buffy." He paused, rubbing his hands roughly over his face as he sighed softly. "And that's why," he said sadly, raising eyes that reflected deep unspoken hurt to a mother who only wanted someone at her side who understood. "It's the reason we all do what we do, the reason we all expose ourselves to so much hurt. To help someone. The ones we love, the ones we've lost. The ones that need it the most."

Tears held so long finally slipped as Joyce reached a shaking hand across the table and gripped his, squeezing tight as she stared wonderingly at him. He knew. He understood, and somehow, _she_ knew that this man was going to be the one to help her baby.

"Ok."


	6. Chapter 6

**Last chapter was lame. You know it. I know it. Lame. Necessary… but lame. I struggled with it for a long time, but just couldn't find a good way around it. So this is my apology letter to all of you who finished it and rolled your eyes. It's ok. I did too. Enjoy (:**

* * *

"Buffy has never been what I expected," Joyce began, settling back into her chair. "Oh she liked her dolls and her pink and her frills, and when she got older she was a lot like any teenager. She loved makeup and clothes and shopping, spent hours on the phone gossiping with her friends. But I've always felt like there was… _more _ to her."

"How do you mean?" Tara asked gently, inserting herself into the narrative while it was still fairly neutral, acclimating Joyce to her involvement in the storyline. She had a pen in her hand and was quietly and unobtrusively making short, neat notes in the back of Buffy's file.

"There was another side to her," Joyce explained, a small side touching her lips. "She was independent, extremely so, from a very young age. She was adventurous and extraordinarily brave for a child, oftentimes to a fault."

She chuckled softly as a memory long forgotten resurfaced. "When she was five, she wandered away out of the backyard. I panicked of course, what mother wouldn't? But it was worse than just that. Our neighbor had a dog you see, one of those big brutish ones, and not at all trustworthy, and I was terrified she would be bitten. So I was running across lawns, shouting for her, all the neighbors staring, and wouldn't you know, of course she was with that dog. Any other child would've stayed away, what with it being the size of a truck, and the teeth, and the growling and…" Joyce laughed again, one hand coming up to over her trembly smile. "Not Buffy. She'd walked right up to it, thumped it on the nose, climbed onto its back, and was riding it around the yard like a horse when I got there."

Spike felt his lips curve in a smile. Somehow he could see that. A tiny, precocious toddler, long golden hair gleaming in the sunlight as she faced down something much bigger and more dangerous than herself. Hazel eyes flashing, her arms crossed defiantly. Tara seemed more even interested in the story than he was, scribbling away at her notes, intermittently chewing on the cap of her pen.

"She was a bright child," Joyce continued, "Not so much with school, though she did well enough. But with… I guess you could call them 'real world problems.' She was outgoing and popular, she never had any problems with any other kids her age. She always seemed so… level-headed. She could work through difficulties, solve disagreements with the mindset of an adult."

"You said there was more to Buffy," Tara began, reflecting Joyce's statement back to her. "I'd like to get back to that for a moment because I think I'm only hearing a bit of what you mean. It sounds so far that you're daughter had a normal childhood; that she was a happy girl who did well with school and friends, is that right?"

Joyce nodded.

"I'm also hearing that Buffy was a brave, independent young girl who was capable of dealing with problems in an appropriate manner. These are all good things." Tara smiled reassuringly, but everyone could hear the '_but_' that hadn't been spoken.

"I think… hm." Joyce struggled with her words. "It's so hard to explain," she laughed. "If you knew her, really _knew_ her, from before… well, you'd know immediately what I mean. There is a… _core_ inside of her, an inner strength that shines through sometimes. She's always had a very strong sense of right and wrong, a drive to stand up for other people. So I was..." Joyce sighed heavily. "Worried. Shocked… when her behavior changed so abruptly."

"After her father left?" Tara prompted.

"It was… an unpleasant breakup," Joyce stated, and psychologist or not, Spike could hear the bitterness, the anger in her voice. "Buffy's father was… not the best of men. He was never abusive," she hurried to assure them, "But there are other ways to hurt people. He cheated. A lot. He was gone frequently on business, and was rarely alone, if you understand my meaning. And Buffy knew. I think even before I did. She's remarkably perceptive that way. When it all finally came out, we decided that we would try to make it work, but… there were a lot of fights. Loud ones that Buffy was exposed to, for several months. I've always regretted that." Joyce dipped her head for a moment, and Spike was struck by the memory of Buffy doing the same only an hour before, the similarities between mother and daughter glaringly apparent.

"In the end he simply left," Joyce said, the steel back in her voice. "He came to the house when we were gone and collected all his things, disappeared without a goodbye. Buffy took it very hard. She loved her father, though he was never overly-affectionate with her. She stayed in her room for days, crying, heartbroken. Then she got angry. It was… a quiet sort of anger, but I could still see it, and to be quite honest, it frightened me. I tried to talk to her about her father, about the situation, but she would just shake her head and walk away.

"After that it seemed like everything went downhill. She became… harder than she had ever been, and was obviously not the happy, sunny girl she was. She started wearing black, stopped lightening her hair. She began to wear an awful leather jacket that she'd found at some thrift store in town."

Spike's ears perked. Tara cast him a quick glance, then went back to her notes.

"She dropped a lot of her friends and even though she'd occasionally hang out with a rougher crowd, she mostly kept to herself. I didn't know how bad it was because we… didn't talk the way we used to. And that was my fault. I let it get that bad."

"It's often hard to know when something's wrong," Tara said kindly, carefully neutral in her words. It wouldn't be appropriate to either confirm or deny Joyce's self-castigation at this point.

"She stole a necklace," the woman blurted out, as though desperate to finally confess a terrible sin. "From the corner store. It was only five dollars, she could've bought it, but she got caught putting it into her pocket in the middle of the aisle."

"A lot of young people shoplift," Spike offered without thought, strangely moved to reassure the elder Mrs. Summers, to defend the younger. Immediately concerned that he'd made a mistake by practically condoning the theft, he shot a sheepish look at Tara, but instead of a warning glare she gave him an encouraging smile. "It's not a good thing, obviously, but it's not the end of the world either." Slouching back in his seat, he threw a smirk in Wesley's direction. "Our friendly neighborhood P.I. here doesn't have the cleanest record."

Wesley colored painfully, coughing into his fist. "Erm, yes… well…"

Spike laughed and Tara smiled, easing the tension in the room at the expense of the investigator. Joyce managed a small, half-hearted smile before continuing her story.

"It gets worse. Two or three times she would come home hours after curfew, covered in make-up, hair a mess, smelling like alcohol. She never explained herself, never defended or fought. I would yell at her and she would just listen, just watch me storm at her. And then she would just go silently to bed. Then one night the… the high school gym burned down." Joyce gripped her upper arms, knuckles going white. "She was gone that night, and the next day her clothes… they smelled like smoke. I cried and screamed and… I've never been so angry with her. She never admitted it, but she never denied it either."

"So you still don't know if Buffy was responsible for the fire?" Tara asked, pen poised, an eyebrow raised in Wesley's direction.

"There _was_ an investigation," he confirmed, "But no evidence was found linking Buffy to it. They looked briefly at a few of the more delinquent students that she had started spending time with, but no charges were ever filed."

Joyce nodded, seconding his comments. "She seemed… shaken after that," she added. "She hardly reacted when they expelled her. I was lucky enough to have an open job offer at the time, one I hadn't intended to take; but I decided that a move would do us good. She didn't seem to have any opinion about the change, not that I allowed one. She helped to pack up the house, sold a lot of her things. When we got to Sunnydale it was like she'd never changed at all."

"How so?" Tara asked.

"Well, she went back to the way she'd been before. She kept that hideous leather jacket, but she didn't wear it. She left it in her closet, went back to the lighter colors she used to wear, started highlighting her hair again. Her very first day at school she stood up to a bully for two other kids; they became her best friends."

"Xander Harris and… Willow Rosenberg, correct?" Tara asked, flipping through the file in her lap.

"Mmm, yes," Joyce replied. "Wonderful, both of them. They were extremely close for years."

"And then?" Spike prompted. This was the hard part. As he watched, everything about the woman changed; her fists clenching, her spine straightening, a vicious glint coming into her eyes, and he had the distinct thought that he would not want to be on the receiving end of a hit by this enraged mother.

"And then she met _him_. Angel O'Connor."

She spat the name like poison from her mouth, her hatred palpable. Wesley too had dug his fingernails into the arm of his chair, his jaw tight, and Spike could almost feel the tension in his friend's body, the desire to lash out at something. He could feel it himself. Could feel his muscles coiling, his blood boiling up in indignation, the burning want to hit something that would give under his fists. It was a feeling he remembered from before, one that he used to give in to, but over the years had learned to channel. He would need to hit the gym after this.

Spike leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples and the bridge of his nose. His headache was coming back. Wishing for the bottle of Excedrin in his dresser drawer, he sat back and refocused, ignoring the pointed glances shot his way by both Tara and Wesley. Joyce hadn't seemed to notice him, too consumed by her anger.

"As I understand it, she'd always known him," she continued, in a stilted, painstaking manner. "He was in the same grade as she was, was one of the popular crowd. The quarterback on the football team if I'm not mistaken. She'd never really mentioned him, Xander and Willow had never mentioned him; they just didn't move in the same circles. But then all of a sudden he asked her to junior prom and she agreed."

Joyce's eyes filled with tears. "She was so happy," Joyce whispered. Tara reached out and pushed a box of tissues across the table towards her, which she accepted. "She was so happy then." Clearing her throat, she continued on. "I met him a few times that summer. I didn't particularly care for him; he seemed rather dull and brutish to me." She laughed lightly. "For some reason I always expected her to end up with a more bookish type. Someone who enjoyed literature, wrote poetry… something like that."

Spike cocked his head. "Why is that?" he asked. "Not many young men write poetry anymore, even fewer would admit to it." He could attest to that. Tara knew he wrote, but he'd never shared anything with her.

"I don't know," Joyce replied, staring off into her memories. "I suppose I just… wanted her to find someone that would complement her. Someone who was strong, stood up for her, fought for her, but was soft on the inside. Someone with a gentle heart." She sighed. "Instead she got this."

"They dated a bit that first summer," she continued, "But when they got back to school they really became a couple, went out regularly. After a month or so I began to notice that she was spending more and more time with him, and less and less time with anyone else. I was worried that she might be going back to her old ways, after all that time, but she would always smile and reassure me. She, she said she was in love." Joyce put a trembling hand over her mouth. "She didn't tell me, but I know he was her first. I could just tell. A mother can, you know. And it was the first time she'd ever said…"

"By the time Christmas break arrived, she was spending almost all her time with him. Over the break, any day that she wasn't with him her phone would ring non-stop. He was constantly messaging her, asking where she was, who she was with. I thought it controlling, obsessive even, but she just brushed me off, telling me that they were in love. And I believed her. Oh, God, I believed her!"

Joyce began to sob, and Spike, who so hated tears, left the comforting to the psychologist. Standing from the couch, he crossed the room to the coffee pot and poured himself a mug of the vile stuff, sipping at the bitter drink and hoping that it would help his headache. When the weeping and the murmuring slacked off, he returned to his place on the loveseat, moving around the thing to get to his seat in order to allow Tara to retain her grip on Joyce's hand.

"I, I started to notice bruises," Joyce sniffed, blotting at her eyes with a tissue. "Small ones, on her arms, her legs, where she could cover them. I asked her, but she would always just say she'd bumped into a table, or had been roughhousing and had knocked into a doorframe. I believed it, because I just couldn't believe that… He took her to her senior prom. There was an after-party at some club the class had reserved. As I understand it, there were hot tubs and fountains there. She drowned that night."

"What do you mean she drowned?" Spike asked, his heart suddenly thumping in his chest.

"I mean she drowned!" Joyce cried, her body shaking. "No one saw what happened, but somehow she ended up face down in one of the pools. The EMT's said she had stopped breathing for over two minutes. Xander found her, and thank God for him. He performed CPR until the ambulance arrived. He told me later that Angel had just been standing there at her side, staring down at her. When Xander called out to him, shouted for him to try and revive her, he only stood there, muttering that he couldn't."

"There were no witnesses to the incident," Wesley commented, his voice gruff. "Buffy herself doesn't quite remember the events leading up to her drowning, so we can't know exactly what happened."

"What do you think happened?" Spike probed, asking the P.I. to go on his gut.

"I believe that he was involved," Wesley stated solidly. "If only in that he didn't move to help her. Typically, human nature overrides shock and forces a body into action in such cases." Here Tara nodded in agreement. "O'Connor simply watched."

"She moved in with him," Joyce said woodenly, breaking into a new line of thought as though she couldn't wait for the conversation to move along. "Even after. She still moved in with him. And then it got worse. I almost never saw her, and when I did, she wasn't the same. She was nervous, twitchy, like she was waiting for the other boot to drop. She was bruised. Worse than before. Like he'd stopped being careful, stopped caring if others could see. Her cheekbones were black once, like she'd had her nose broken. And she still stayed with him!"

"It's hard to understand why someone stays in an abusive relationship," Tara began. "Especially those that are physically so. And it's easy to put the blame on the victim, even when we don't want to. Why didn't they just walk away? Why did they stay and let this happen to them? But it's _very_ important," she emphasized, leaning forward, "To realize that the victim is _not_ to blame. Buffy may need some help, some coaching to help her recognize situations that are dangerous to her well-being and to give her the tools to avoid them, but the abuse lies squarely with the abuser. _Angel_ is responsible for this. He is the one who needs the control, the one who uses physical intimidation and pain to get it."

"I know that," Joyce whispered, "I do. But Buffy… I suppose you just never expect it to happen to you."

"No," Spike murmured. "You never do."


	7. Chapter 7

While Tara finished up the last of her questions with Joyce, Spike had led Wesley back to his own office, closing the door behind them with an almost silent click. Sinking gratefully into his overstuffed, leather desk chair, his hand dove immediately into the bottom drawer, seeking his pain pills. With a deftness that spoke of too much practice, he popped off the safety cap with his thumb and shook three of the Excedrin out into his palm, tossing them to the back of his throat and washing them down with the dregs of his neglected coffee.

"Spike, are you quite all right?" the P.I. asked, his concern evident as his accent stiffened.

Frowning at the moniker, Spike none the less nodded and stuffed the bottle surreptitiously into the pocket of his jacket, now slung over the back of his chair. He'd be needing three more before the day was out.

"Just a bit of a headache mate," he soothed, rolling his shoulders. "Must've slept on my neck wrong."

Wesley nodded, though he remained unconvinced.

"So," Spike sighed, pulling his file towards him and flipping it open to a blank page as he uncapped a pen. "What can you tell me about our boy?"

"Angelus O'Connor," Wesley sneered, reaching into his own file to pull out a photo. Tossing it across the desk to Spike, he began to page through his own meticulous notes. "Big bloke. Six one, almost six two, just under two hundred pounds and all of it muscle. Played football in high school so he knows how to throw his weight around."

Spike looked down at the picture in his lap and felt his fingers go cold. There was something familiar about the man; not the shape of his face, or the way his hair stuck straight up from his forehead, not the easy one-sided smirk that he had thrown to the camera. No, it was the eyes that always got him, every time he encountered one of the men who had so damaged one of his girls. Windows to the soul they were, and with these bastards the windows were always black.

"Mum tried to file a report against him once," Wesley continued, "When the girl showed up at home with a wrenched shoulder. Got as far as discussing a restraining order before Buffy backed out. She'd never really claimed it was him; was Joyce who'd done all the talking, and after that she refused to say another ill word against him."

"So she's _never_ admitted to anyone that he's the one abusing her?" Spike asked with concern. That could be a big problem.

"That's the strange thing," Wesley said, "She's willing to admit that she's hurt. She's sought out medical care, shown her mother her injuries. She's not trying particularly hard to hide her bruises." As he spoke, he ticked each thing off on his fingers, a list of contradictions that Spike had never seen before in a single girl. "She's an anomaly," the investigator concluded, throwing his hands up in the air.

"One of a kind," Spike agreed, stroking the scar that laced through his eyebrow with his thumb as he leaned forward on his elbows.

"She has the mental capacity to recognize that she's being hurt," Wesley continued, frustration thick in his voice as he drummed a finger against the desktop with each word. "She _knows_ it's abuse Spike, I can feel it. She knows what he did to her is wrong. But she doesn't seem to be able to _say_ it; to herself or anyone else."

"Most of the girls here can't do that," Spike pointed out defensively, though he knew what Wesley was getting at. "Very, very few of them can speak out against their abusers."

"True," Wesley agreed. "But many of them don't consider it abuse either. They're conditioned to believe that they deserve it, or that it's normal. Many of them think they love the men who hit them, or are too scared to speak up. I don't see any of that from Buffy."

Spike sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. "This is Tara's territory mate," he muttered.

Wesley narrowed his eyes. Spike never sloughed off any part of a client's treatment, and this typically was the part that he was highly involved in. The circumstances of his past made him particularly well qualified to consult with Tara when a patient first arrived. He was good at watching people, at sizing them up and figuring out their weaknesses, a valuable tool that helped to figure out what made these girls tick. It wasn't like him to be fading out, to show disinterest or even fatigue. Spike ran like a fine German sports car; smoothly, quietly, with well harnessed power and boundless energy.

"Do you have a copy of her medical history?" he asked abruptly, pulling Wesley from his musings. "I know Jenny has a copy, and I plan on making sure that Buffy gets over to see her first thing tomorrow, but…"

Pulling out a list that filled the length of two sheets of paper, Wesley slid it across to him. "Not sure everything's there," he cautioned, "But I got as much of it from her mother as I could. Everything from the hospital as well. Of course there's no telling what injuries she sustained that were never reported, or that her friends and family never noticed."

"Contusions, lacerations, sprains…" Spike read off, flicking back and forth between the pages. "A broken nose, the wrenched shoulder. The concussion, broken arm, and choking she's coming in with. The drowning. God, she was actually dead?" he asked in a horrified whispered.

"As I understand it," Wesley confirmed, his expression grim. "Her heart had to be restarted with a defibrillator. There was water in her lungs, so she was still breathing when she went into the fountain. But they were in a part of the club that was hidden from the cameras, and there weren't any witnesses, so I've got almost _nothing_ to link him to it."

Shoving back angrily from the desk, Wesley stood and began to pace across the brief length of the office, running his hands roughly through his hair. His voice had risen as he spoke, and Spike could see the hanger and frustration simmering underneath the Brit's usual stiff upper lip. Slouched back in his seat, he watched in silence as the investigator moved in short, harsh strides, turning tightly on the heel of his boot. He was reminded uncomfortably of a dog staked out on the end of its chain, wearing the grass down to dirt as it ran in never-ending circles.

"I've got _nothing _on this bastard!" Wesley barked, causing Spike to wince as his voice bounced off the walls of the enclosed space. "He attacked her in _their_ apartment, any fingerprints that the police or I pull from it are going to be circumstantial. She got the concussion when he bashed her skull off the hardwood floor, so there's no weapon to bill into evidence." Suddenly he slammed his palms onto Spike's desktop, leaning towards him with eyes flashing. "I've got nothing Spike. If Buffy doesn't testify against O'Connor…"

"I'll do everything I can to help put this guy away Wes, you know that," Spike assured him, speaking slowly and calmly until his friend eased back down into his chair. "But our first priority here is always the girl. If it comes down to it, I can't jeopardize Buffy's progress to make your case."

"Of course," Wesley muttered, nodding in agreement. He cared about his clients, cared about the victims more than any conviction, and Spike had experienced it first-hand. Wesley had a soft heart, a good heart, though it had been hardened over the years. He might show cynicism, a vicious tenacity whenever he went after a criminal, but it was these cases in which he invested himself. His devotion to the well-being of victims and their families, his willingness to go above and beyond and to do everything in his power to gather up the pieces of a broken life had literally saved Spike's life. Now it was Spike's turn to take the pieces and start gluing them back together.

"Well, we have some time," he sighed, beginning to collect his things for departure. "Since this most recent… incident, no one's seen or heard from O'Connor." Spike rose reluctantly, uncurling his long frame from behind the desk to following his friend towards the door. "He has some family left in Ireland; L.A.P.D. is watching flights out of country and state."

"You're treating this as attempted murder then?" Spike asked, locking his office door and heading down the hallway towards the lounge where they had left Tara and Joyce Summers. It would be hard to get any serious response from international law enforcement for a count of domestic violence.

"I'm going to try," Wesley responded, his tone uncertain. "The bruising on her throat makes it pretty clear that strangulation was the intention. For God's sake, there's a bloody handprint on her neck! And with all the unanswered questions surrounding the drowning…"

Spike didn't answer, his mouth occupied with a twisted grimace. Rounding the corner of the hallway, he schooled his expression into something more neutral, Joyce and Tara's voices reaching his ears.

"Ladies," he smiled, coming alongside Tara and placing a light hand at the small of her back. "All finished up?"

"I think so," Tara replied, smiling at the frazzled woman in front of her. "Joyce here was quite helpful."

"You, you do think you'll be able to help her?" she asked, wringing her hands in a nervous manner. Though she had come to be much more comfortable with the psychologist in the past hour, it was Spike she addressed.

"We never make any promises Mrs. Summers," Spike began carefully. "But we're dedicated here at Effulgent. We do everything we can to help our clients, and from what you've told us and what I've seen so far…" Here Spike looked over at Tara, and she nodded encouragingly. "I think that Buffy has a very good chance of growing into a happy, successful adult capable of finding a happy, healthy relationship."

He wasn't ready for Joyce's reaction to his words. He had seen almost everything over the years; crying, begging, threatening, even total silence. He had seen parents drop their daughter's off and walk away without a word, watched friends shrug off weeping girls and duck hugs before running back to the car. But this was the first time that someone threw themselves at him, pulled him into their arms and hugged him warmly, without guise or mal-intent. For a moment he stood stiffly, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as his mind ran through the proper, professional protocol for such a thing, but he couldn't find it and so he caved, returning the hug and simply enjoying the embrace and what it meant.

After a moment, before his anxiety could set in, he gently disentangled himself from Joyce's arms. Her eyes were wide and teary, and Spike flashed her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Stepping forward, Wesley placed a hand at the small of her back.

"We'd best be on our way then," he said lightly. Everyone knew that this could be the most difficult part, the actual leaving. Joyce had shown herself to be a very loving and concerned mother, and no doubt it would be extremely difficult for her to abandon her daughter here. But the core of strength Spike had glimpsed in both her and Buffy made its appearance once again, and Joyce straightened her shoulders, her expression hardening.

"Yes, I suppose it is," she agreed. Reaching out a hand, she grasped Tara's firmly. "It was nice to meet you, Miss McClay. I've no doubt you'll be able to help Buffy." Turning back to Spike, she graced him with another sad little smile. "Thank you Will," she said softly. "I wouldn't presume to know why but… I can see that these girls matter to you. More than I would've expected. And to be quite honest, I've more hope today than I've had in… well, in a long time. If anyone can help Buffy, I expect it's you."

Spike could only nod around the knot in his throat.


	8. Chapter 8

After an emotional but carefully contained goodbye with Wesley, Spike successfully saw both him and his passenger off, Joyce looking back over her shoulder until they were out of sight over the hill. She had managed to hold back the tears that threatened, but he wondered how quickly they would fall now that she was safely away. Stepping back inside, he checked the clock on the wall in the lobby and groaned, rubbing his hands roughly over his face. If he was going to have lunch with Tara, he needed to have his shit together twenty minutes ago. Flipping open his cell, he dialed Clem's. Luckily for him, he knew the owner.

A quick, friendly chat later and the promise of speedy delivery, Spike made his way over to Tara's office. He slipped inside without a knock; the door was open, a sign that the psychologist was welcoming any and all visitation. She was firmly ensconced behind her large oak desk, the burled wood glowing warmly with care. She'd had the thing for as long as Spike had known her, a ridiculously large piece of furniture that she had none the less carted between dorm rooms, and apartments, often with his help. Her head was bent over a sheaf of papers as she scribbled furiously, a terrible shorthand that he had never seen anyone else decipher. Knowing better than to interrupt the flow of her thoughts, he quietly took a seat and waited for her to finish.

"Almost done," she promised, her eyes never leaving her pen.

"Take your time pet," he murmured softly, when all he really wanted was to get this over quickly. He was exhausted, and had decided to cut his losses, heading home as soon as they were done. He didn't have any classes or one on one's today; he tried not to schedule them on intake days, so he was free and clear to scarper off to his bed and pass out.

As he waited, he thought back over the events of the morning. He'd been glad to see Wesley. Guilt twinged in his chest; it had been far too long since he'd seen the man. Perhaps he would invite him down for a beer in a week or two, when this new case was up and rolling. Buffy Summers. Well. She hadn't been what he'd expected, had she? It was strange - he was so used to seeing girls who were either entirely broken or spitting mad at the world that her quite strength had struck him. There was something about her, something about her being here that was off. He thought that perhaps her mother may have struck on it, something about their conversation flittering around in his head, telling him that he knew the answer. He just couldn't seem to pin it down.

And that brought him round to the mother. She'd surprised him too. He saw a lot of her in her daughter. And it had been… God it felt like _years_ since he'd been hugged like that. His mother had died when he was a child, and he and his stepfather didn't have the type of relationship that expressed care in a physical manner. Part of it was a British thing, stiff upper lip and all that rot, but part of it was just him. He knew that. He accepted it. He detached himself from the world, distanced himself from those around him, and he lived with the consequences. Even Tara, open and affectionate Tara was usually shied away from, his nerves and some small, stupid part of his brain telling him not to get that close.

"Finished!"

Spike looked up as she snapped her file shut, tapping all her papers flush on the edge of the desk. He'd never asked her about it. Perhaps he would someday. She'd say that was good. That he was taking an interest in the people around him. Seeking a connection.

"Ready?" she asked, getting to her feet and slipping into a light cardigan.

He smiled in response, standing and ushering her through the door ahead of him. "Food should be on its way," he said. "Told Clem we'd pick it up out front."

The walk down to the gate was brisk and short, the cool fall air crisp and light around them. Neither spoke, simply enjoying the weather and stretching their legs with their companion. They passed a small group of women out on one of the lawns, laughing and waving when they passed. Tara returned the wave, as did he, though for some reason today it felt strangely obligatory, like he would feel guilty if he didn't. And then of course he felt guilty for thinking that. Spike sighed quietly. It had been a long morning.

When they reached the entrance they found a delivery car waiting, a pimply young man chatting easily with the rugged Charles Gunn across the safety glass of his booth. Spike forked over a generous tip, though he and Tara kept running tabs at Clem's to be paid at the end of each month. The restaurant and bar was a popular place and not far from the complex, making it the go-to choice for most of the employees at Effulgent. No skin off his nose anyways; he'd gotten the crumpled wad of bills hustling pool tables over the weekend, and he remembered what it was to work your way through college.

Accepting the carryout bags, Spike and Tara had a quick chat with Gunn and headed back up to the gym. It was empty but for Jenny and a girl named Trisha, who had come to them with a half-way healed fracture in her leg. The physician was carefully guiding the girl through a series of weight lifting exercises, strengthening the muscles in the unused limb. Moving quietly around the edge of the room so as not to interrupt, they climbed the stairs to the catwalk.

The gym was an extensive place; not only was there a weight room with lots of cardio equipment, there was also a full basketball-cum-volleyball court, a swimming pool, and two separate studios, one suited to dance and yoga with its wooden floors and mirrors, the other to judo and karate, the floors and walls thickly padded. The upper level was a maze of ramps running overhead, allowing for easy chaperoning and instruction by the staff. Spike, who was heavily involved in many of the activities here, also maintained a small office on the second floor, over top of the locker rooms. It was against the wall of this office that he now leaned, sinking slowly until he was sitting on the corrugated metal of the gangway. Slipping out of his jacket, he shook it out for Tara to sit upon. Once she was seated, her skirt tucked carefully around her knees, he dug into the take-out bags, his stomach turning at the mere thought of the food inside.

"A chicken salad wrap on whole wheat for the lady," he said, handing over the foil wrapped roll with a flourish. It was closely followed by a cardboard carton of steaming sweet potato fries and a bottle of grape soda.

"You do know my favorites," she smiled, popping a fry into her mouth.

Spike smirked, pulling out his own lunch; a thick, greasy cheeseburger made rare with bacon and mayo, and no lettuce in sight. He'd found that stuffing himself full of fat and salt after a binge helped cut the nausea, though you had to fight through it to get the thing down first. Pulling out his own box of fries, he smiled into the bag.

"And Clem knows mine," he chuckled, shaking out the handful of hot sauce packets in the bottom.

For a bit they both shut up, Tara watching surreptitiously as Spike eyed his food. For the first few bites his stomach rolled and he was sure that he would boot, but then the hot sauce seemed to open up his sinuses and bring his taste buds to life, reminding him of how long it had been since he'd eaten a real meal. At that point he dug in with relish, finishing off the burger and working his way steadily through the fries, munching away contentedly and occasionally stealing a sip of Tara's soda.

"So what do you think?" he asked, when the psychologist was well tucked in to her own fare.

"Off the top of my head?" she asked, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. Spike nodded. "This is going to be a hard one," she sighed. "Obviously I haven't spoken to Buffy yet, but from what her mother's told me…" Tara paused and looked at him with a frown. "I don't know," she said finally. "Something doesn't fit. Something's… different."

"I got that too," Spike said quietly, though he knew they were speaking of two different things.

"She reminds me of you actually," she tossed out casually.

"You haven't met her yet ducks, remember?"

"There's two sides to her," Tara continued, ignoring his protest. "Her mother knew it, could see it. Two faces, one coin."

Spike chuckled deprecatingly, almost a sniff. That was him all right.

"She got into some bad behavior when life got tough. She made herself harsher, darker in order to deal. She bought a leather coat."

Spike stared off the edge of the catwalk, imaging the slight blonde in black leather and smoke, the spark he'd seen in her eye flaring bright. What would she be like come to life; how bright could she burn when whole?

"I'm not saying it's a bad way to cope." Tara's hand was on his knee, a gesture meant to reassure, to placate. And he was a mite offended. They'd had this talk before. Wednesday nights like clockwork. "I'm just saying that it's not always the best way."

Spike shrugged her hand off. "Doesn't really matter does it?" he asked. "She dropped the act when it got old. Doesn't have anything to do with present circumstances, why she was with someone who hit her."

He knew that was wrong. He said it anyway. Tara was quick to correct.

"Of course it does Spike. You and I know better than most; the past doesn't go away. As much as we try to shake it, it stays with us. It affects everything we do, the people that we become."

Spike frowned, irritated that he was being scolded, guilty and annoyed because he knew he was being a prig, but his headache was back again, and he scrubbed one hand roughly through his carefully combed hair. "What's with the desk?" he asked suddenly, a violent change of topic that left his friend reeling.

"What?" she asked. "W,w,what do y,y,you…"

Shit. She was stuttering. He'd ballsed up. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Jenny appeared abruptly on the ramp, popping up over the stairs and heading their way.

"Whew!" she smiled, wiping her brow. "That Trisha's going to be running circles around me soon."

"She's doing b,b,better then?" Tara asked, her cheeks pink with embarrassment as she avoiding looking either of them in the eye, collecting their trash and stuffing it the carryout bag.

Spike felt like there was a knife in his gut. He hadn't meant to… well, ok, maybe he'd meant to throw her off, but not to hurt her. Never that. He hadn't realized that he was digging at old scars.

"Much better," Jenny replied, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. Of strong gypsy heritage, something she was quite proud of, Jenny's coloring reminded him a lot of… Spike shook his head. "Her leg's completely healed, and we've almost got her muscles back up to where they should be. I'm very pleased."

"How's Sam?" Spike asked, enquiring after the girl who'd had the allergic reaction that morning.

"Also much better, thank God." The physician hugged her middle with both arms. "Gave us all a good scare. I swear, that girl is allergic to everything but water, air, and sunlight. And I'm not even sure about those. But I missed out appointment this morning," she said, looking for confirmation.

Spike nodded. "New girl, Buffy Summers. You have her file?" Jenny nodded. "She came in with a broken arm and severe bruising on her neck. Also a pretty bad concussion we're gonna need to keep an eye on."

Tara was climbing to her feet, sweeping off the back of her skirt, so Spike did the same, picking up his jacket and shaking it out before slipping it on. "I was hoping you could get her in tomorrow morning?" he asked.

"That's not a problem," Jenny replied. "I'll need to double check, but I'm sure I'm free until five."

Spike nodded, and together they descended the stairs and headed for the exit. "That's good then. She'll have her first session with Tara on Thursday, and Fred's planning the hall dinner for Friday night. I told her it was a soft Saturday for the first sum-up; that work for you ladies?"

"Works for me," Jenny smiled. Tara only nodded.

"All right then. I'm clear for the afternoon," he said, "Think I'm gonna scarper."

"Are you feeling all right Spike?" Jenny asked. "You're looking a little pale."

"I'm fine," he lied. "Just a headache."

"Are you having migraines again?" the physician asked, concern immediately coloring her tone. "Have you been sleeping?"

"I'm fine pet," Spike repeated gently, though he wanted to bolt. He should've just snuck off. Should've known better than to say anything in front of the gypsy girl. Jenny frowned, but nodded, taking him at his word and giving them both a little wave before heading off towards the clinic.

"The nightmares are back?" a quiet voice asked. Damn the perceptive women in his life.

Spike sighed heavily. "I'll tell you on Wednesday pet," he replied. Boxes. Everything in its place.

"Will you?" she asked.

Spike turned to her, a sad little smile on his face. "Tell you what," he said, "I'll talk on Wednesday. Really talk. And then maybe, if you want, you can tell me about the desk. Ok?"

Tara looked at him warily, and Spike thought that he might have seen a tear glint in her eye, but then she was biting her lip and nodding, looking at the ground. Reaching out, he hooked a finger under her chin and lifter her face.

"Friends again doc?" he asked.

Tara smiled and gave him a quick, tight hug, careful not to hold on too long. "Go home Spike," she said. "Get some sleep. You do look pale."


	9. Chapter 9

Fred was good. The shadow of a smile had ghosted over Buffy's lips when the pretty young Texan had slipped smoothly out of the room, mentioning that she had to be off for a quick check up on a girl who'd been sick that morning. The slim brunette with the remnants of a southern drawl still clinging to her vowels had stayed for about twenty minutes, mostly puttering around and chattering cheerfully as Buffy unloaded clothes from her suitcase, but seemed to know just when her companionship had run its course. Now Buffy was finally alone, and she was thankful for it.

Kicking her suitcase closed, she moved to the bed and dropped onto the soft blue quilt that covered it, her fingers tracing the unfamiliar patterns. Sunlight trickled in through the window, between the pretty, checked curtains, throwing a warm splash over her back and the side of her face. She sighed. She was really here. The dull, painful ache in her arm, in her throat, was a constant reminder. This is real. You let this happen. Why, why did you let this happen?

Buffy felt her lungs tighten and roughly knuckled her eyes with her one good hand. Crying didn't solve anything. It wouldn't make her feel better. No. _Healing_ would make her feel better. Getting this horrible, itchy cast off, and being able to look in the mirror and see her face all the same color, _that_ would make her feel better. To not get dizzy when she stood up too fast and to not take so many pills…

Buffy sighed, flopping onto her back and squinting, wiggling to the side so that the ray of sun was no longer slashing over her face. Grabbing Mr. Gordo from the pillow, she held him over her head and looked intently into his little piggy button-eyes, hoping for more than simple, cuddly-stuffed comfort, but the portly pink porker held his tongue.

"Stubborn," Buffy chastised.

Hugging the pig tightly with her good arm, she huffed in frustration. What was she doing here? It felt like prison. She'd walked into it of her own free will, and she was pretty sure she could walk out of it the same way, but she still felt trapped. The room was too small, the walls too white, closing in on her like jaws. The people here… she wasn't like the people here, wasn't… was she?

Buffy recognized the symptoms of a panic attack coming on; she'd had one or two in the past. Her heart was beating hard and fast, and she was breathing heavily, the taste of metal thick in the back of her throat, the need to run overwhelming. Clenching her fists as heard as she could, she focused on her happy place, her Zen, calling to mind the image she always thought of when she started to freak, when she needed to be calm and to think clearly.

A few minutes later, she was gently puffing out slow, easy breaths as she slowly relaxed into the mattress.

"What's happened to me?" she whispered, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

God, the way they all looked at her. The way her mother and her friends looked at her. With pity, with horror, with something that she sometimes thought might be disgust. It turned her stomach. And she wasn't sure these people were any better. Wesley, Fred, Will…

"They like _you_ better!" she said to Mr. Gordo in an accusatory tone. "Well… maybe not Fred. She seems nice, doesn't she?"

Buffy rolled onto her good side and stared hard at her stuffed animal, frowning. But Will? Will she wasn't so sure of. He was testing her. She knew that. When he made her pass by him, when he stood in the doorway to her room. He didn't fill it up the way… _someone else_ might; he was smaller, leaner, not nearly as threatening. But he watched her, and it made her feel…

She didn't know what it made her feel. There was something more to him, she could sense it, and it made her nervous. She planned on getting through this program. Maybe even doing some of it for real. But she wasn't so sure she was going to be making friends. Wasn't so sure she was going to be… connecting with the people here. But she was sure of one thing. She was going to stay away from Will Pratt.

She'd figure out where to go from there.

* * *

As soon as Spike was through his apartment door, he shed Will as thoroughly as he shed his flak jacket, stripping off his soft green Henley and scrubbing his hands harshly through his hair as he made his way to his bedroom. Jerking open a dresser drawer filled entirely with black t-shirts, he pulled one down over his head and moved back out into the living room. His leather duster was right where he'd left it, thrown sloppily over the back of the couch. Digging into a side pocket, his hand closed on gold.

Snagging his keys, he headed back down to the underground carport, lighting up before he was even out of the stairwell. Spike loved his smokes, but he hated the way the smell clung to his furniture, hovered in the air. It reminded him of a bar, and that reminded him of drinking and that... well, that he didn't need any help remembering.

Stepping up to the back of a rusty blue pickup, he lowered the tailgate and took a seat, reaching back behind him and grabbing the old Ball jar that had rolled towards him. Uncapping the jar, he crushed his butt out on the lid and dropped it into the already half-full jar. For the next twenty minutes he puffed happily away, chain smoking through two-thirds of his pack until he heard the door to the garage closed behind him.

"What did I tell you about smoking in my truck?"

Spike smirked and stubbed out his last butt, capping up his jar and pushing it back into the bed of the pickup. "Not in your truck luv," he said.

"On it then."

The tailgate dipped beneath him as an elderly lady with curly white hair and wire-framed glasses hoisted herself up beside him. Holding out her hand, she waited patiently until Spike tapped out one last cigarette and handed it over, cupping his hand around the end as he lit it for her.

"You know those things will kill you pet."

The woman chuckled. "Everything will kill you these days," she replied. "Smoking. Drinking. Microwaves and cellphones and little tiny cells that nobody can see."

"Come on now ducks," Spike murmured, his spirits taking a hard hit. "Don't think like that."

"Oh, don't fuss William."

"Maggie…"

His neighbor threw him a warning glare, one he recognized well. He'd seen it many times over the last two years, and it shut him up like a clam. Margaret Irene Timms was not a woman to cross. For the next few moments they sat in companionable silence while she finished her smoke, Spike watching his boots swing back and forth underneath them until she crushed out the cherry and gestured for him to get down.

"I've got to run to the market sweet William," she said, taking his hand as he helped her to the ground.

Spike nodded and lifted the tailgate for her, closing it securely. "You call me when you get back, you hear? Don't be carrying those bags up yourself."

She fussed over him a bit, brushing at his t-shirt and pursing her lips. "I'll call up. And I'll make you a nice, hot meal and until then, you'll go upstairs and get some sleep. You're too thin, sweet, and you need sleep."

"Now who's fussing pet?" Spike asked fondly. There were very few people in this world he had connection with, but somehow he had found that with this tottering little old lady who was dying before her time. He supposed that she reminded him of his mum, and he supposed that Maggie knew that. Handing her up into the cab of her truck, he bade her to be careful driving and watched until she was safely out of the garage before heading back upstairs.

Throwing his deadbolt, Spike slumped back against his front door with a heavy sigh. He cared for Maggie, he did, but facing her illness… it was hard. She would talk to him sometimes, laugh sweetly and tell him that her dying was harder on him than it was on her. And maybe it was. His mother, and then… _her_. It was hard. And he felt it.

The throb in the back of his head that had abated with the flood of nicotine was back, and there was a weariness in his muscles to match. If he hadn't just promised to carry up Maggie's groceries, he would've popped a couple of the sleeping pills Jenny had written for him, the ones he hadn't taken like he should've, but had saved, for those nights when he just couldn't stand them anymore. Now he just…

Wandering over to his couch, he fell backwards onto the cushions and passed out, his boots dangling over the arm.


End file.
